Fiction
JULY 7, 1947 It was early morning when Barry Whitestone rode out to check on his cattle. He noticed right away that something was wrong. The herd was spooked. They moved restlessly about, bunching together, shivering and bellowing, their eyes rolling in panic. Sweat colored their flanks. As Barry rode slowly through the herd, he saw something glint on the ground in front of him. He stopped, dismounted, and bent over to pick it up. It appeared to be some sort of metal. It looked a little like aluminum, finely polished, very strong yet extremely flexible… an odd thing to find in a dusty pasture. As he slipped it into his pocket, he suddenly realized that similar pieces were everywhere. Looking towards the south, he spotted a larger object, which appeared to be made of the same material. As he hurried in that direction, the sun reflecting off the object made it glow so brightly that it almost blinded him. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he saw what appeared to be two human-like forms, slumped against the object. Barry backed away and ran towards his horse. He scrambled aboard, and raced back towards the ranch… now every bit as terrified as his cattle. * * * I had a job at the feed store that summer, quite a feat for a boy of eleven. In the middle of the morning, when the men I worked with took their break, I’d scoot next door to Sally’s Diner for a quick cup of coffee. My parents never let me drink the stuff, afraid that it would stunt my growth. But I was a working man now, and Sally understood that. I’d sit at the counter and she’d wink at me as she poured me half a cup, never more, and made sure that I had a full pitcher of milk to mix it with. Anyways, there I was, drinking my cuppa joe, when old Barry from out at the Whitestones’ place came running in. He was terribly pale, sweat poured from his brow, and he trembled all over as he took the reviving cup of coffee that Sally offered him. He sat down at the counter, a few stools away from me. He wasn’t drinking his coffee, just holding it, and his hands were shaking so badly that it was sloshing all over. Several ranchers began calling out to him, but Barry didn’t respond. In fact, he never even looked up. His eyes seemed to be focusing hard on the countertop, or on some place deep inside the counter, like he was looking through it into another world that none of us could see. When he did look up, the diner went silent. His eyes were wide and his pupils were huge, his face was tinged a sickly gray. Suddenly, Barry wasn’t the only one trembling. My chest felt hot and I started to sweat, but my limbs were cold and shaky. I could hear my pulse pounding hard in my ears. Finally Barry said, “Fellas, you’re never gonna believe what I got in my pasture.” “Whatcha got?” someone called out. “Cows?” Laughter rang out. A few of the men began to moo. Sally hushed them with a look. There weren’t many men brave enough to stand up to Sally, especially when she had a hot pot of coffee in her hands. “What I got,” said Barry, “is a flyin’ saucer.” The entire diner went quiet. “… and I got a piece of it right here,” he continued, slipping his hand inside his pocket. Just then, the door banged open, and everybody jumped. A man in a black suit entered the diner—his dress was pretty unusual attire for these parts. He strolled over to stand behind Barry. Six other men, dressed the same way, followed him in the door. They were all big, and calm and quiet, and they all wore dark sunglasses, which made it impossible to see their eyes. Then, the first man spoke. “Mr. Whitestone? Mr. Barry Whitestone?” “Who’s askin’?” said Barry. “Come on now, Mr. Whitestone, no one wants any trouble. Who we are is not really important,” said the man. “We’re from Washington. That’s all you need to know. Now please, stand up. You’re coming with us.” You could tell that Barry wasn’t really too keen on the idea. He stood slowly, looking around the diner like he was waiting for one of us to save him. But we didn’t. We couldn’t. It was all kind of like a dream. I watched as the men loaded Barry into a long black car, which then pulled away up the dusty street. I wanted to follow them. I needed to follow them. I ran outside and hopped on my bike. The car already had a good head start, but I was determined to catch it. I pedaled faster and faster, until the wind began to sting my face, and my feet kept slipping off the pedals. But the car just kept pulling away. By the time I lost sight of it and stopped my bike, my legs ached and my lungs were on fire. I looked around and realized that I was near the turnoff for the Whitestone place. I decided that if I couldn’t catch the car, I might as well ride on out to Barry’s and see what really was in his pasture. As I approached the turnoff, I could see quite a commotion going on up ahead. There was a roadblock and lots of army vehicles. I recognized our sheriff, who was arguing with yet another man in a black suit. “Listen here,” I heard him say, “this is a county matter and I’ve got jurisdiction.” The man replied, “You don’t argue with Washington, mister, we’ve got direct authority from the president to be here.” Soldiers paced nervously back and forth, their rifles at the ready. As I pulled up, one stepped forward and stopped me. “I’m sorry son,” he said, “but I can’t let
Cammie pushed aside her sunshine-yellow curtains to stare out the window. Ghosts, princesses, and superheroes were just starting to file onto Lemon Lane. She turned from the window to look at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Cammie’s curls bounced up and down gleefully in rhythm with her sparkling plastic antennae. A frilly ballerina leotard overlapped lavender tights. Matching wings glittered under the incandescent light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Perfect, she thought. Glancing out the window again, Cammie felt lighthearted. It seemed almost as if she could fly. In fact, now she was flying. She was flying through her window, out of the neighborhood, and into the limitless sky. The moon smiled down on her. Cammie looked down, only to find the most beautiful flowers below her. They came in every color of the rainbow and were speckled with tiny intricate drops of dew. Cammie longed to go down to the flowers and so her wings obeyed and she drifted downward. Landing on a petal, she thought, How odd. These petals feel like bedsheets. Cammie, suddenly feeling indifferent to the petals, decided to taste some of that juicy nectar that allured her. As she bent down to sip, the nectar seemed to leap out of the flower and it splashed Cammie’s face. The moon abruptly became a light bulb. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” said her obnoxious sister, who had evidently poured water on Cammie to rouse her. “You don’t want to miss Halloween, now, do you?” Cammie rolled over in bed and put on her costume. She was a shimmering butterfly. Cammie looked in the mirror and thought, I could almost fly…
I lived a beautiful life free of worry or sorrow until the age of fourteen, when both my mother and father died. Then, I had nowhere to go except my Aunt Helga’s. Her name explains her perfectly. Aunty was strict and old-fashioned. She was an old maid and her rigid lifestyle made me a prisoner to her. I am not a weak character, but there are some people whom you cannot contradict, no matter who you are. That was the way it was with Aunt Helga. She was not unkind to me; she was just very stern. I lived with my aunt for four years. In all of those years nothing marked one day from another: Saturday housework, Sunday church, and the few weekly engagements and visits. Otherwise I was at home with Aunt. In those years, I could see no way to escape from where I was. I probably would have lived with my Aunt Helga forever, sheltered and ignorant of the world, my aunt constantly nagging me. “Clara child, why put your hair like that? How I do hate these new fashions! And, for heaven’s sake, do not sign your name Aster.” “Clara! Never let me catch you wearing red again!” “Clara. When you dust the dining room, make quite sure you remove the runner before you dust the table. And do put on an apron.” And it went on and on. Indeed nothing would have changed had it not been for Martha Hayward and her brother, Thomas. Martha and I were naturally drawn to each other even though we were completely different. Martha was not particularly beautiful. Her blond hair clashed with her deep brown eyes, just as my bright blue shadowy eyes and dark hair made my face look pale and thin. Martha was large. I was small. She was buoyant and happy. I was rather mysterious. Perhaps that was what was so appealing to Martha, but also to Tom, her brother. I liked Tom as much as Martha. Luckily I could see both of them often. Aunt Helga, upon their arrival, found gossipy, fretful Mrs. Hayward almost as interesting as I found Tom and Martha. Their visits improved my spirits a good deal. It was evident to me that Aunt liked all of them, for at breakfast one morning she said to me, “Do you like the Haywards, Clara?” “Why, yes, I do. I like them very much,” I said. “Do you?” “Yes, I have to say I do. Even though they are only Haywards. One must give allowances for name, Clara. Go change the flowers in the tea room. Then go to the post office for me, and on the way back pick up half a yard of blue silk and one foot of green ribbon. I cannot bear to think Mrs. Hayward has the new ribbon and I do not!” Of course this was not very much praise for the Haywards. But that my Aunt would think of anybody but herself was remarkable for her, or that anybody other than herself was worth talking about. * * * One blustery fall morning found me sitting in front of the parlor window, absently watching the asters swaying in their bed. Asters are my favorite flowers, and I often wear them in my hair. Also, when my father was alive and we lived in the country, he used to call me Aster when I wore purple. So I love them dearly. The parlor door opened behind me. I took no notice of this. Probably it was Aunt Helga. A hand gently touched my shoulder. I looked up. It was Tom. “Clara,” he said, “I have brought you some flowers,” revealing a purple cluster. “Oh! Tom, how did you know I love asters so much? I never told you. Did you know I was thinking about them?” “I have ways of finding out,” said he, loftily looking at the ceiling. “Don’t joke, Tom. How did you know?” “Are they your favorite?” he asked, looking well pleased. “I really didn’t know that; I just thought you would like them.” “I do, very much,” I said. “Well, hope you think the same about their giver.” He was not teasing, I saw. And he added, “You will think so by and by, won’t you, Clara?” And perhaps I will.
“Hey new girl,” a boy’s voice boomed large out of nowhere. “Are you Asian? Are you from China?” Emily’s face felt scorched. She knew it was turning the deepest shade of sunburn right now because she was dying of embarrassment. She slid further down in her seat, halfway under her desk. In her first week at her new school, this was the last thing Emily Chang wanted—to call attention to herself in this way. But she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t her fault. “I’m American, just like you,” she found her courage. Talking over the din of whispers in the room, she added in a small, barely audible voice, “Chinese-American,” stressing the American part. Emily quickly jumped up from her seat as the bell rang, signaling the end of her math class which had been her favorite class, that is—up until now. Oh why did we have to move from San Francisco to Boston? she asked herself, but she already knew the answer to that tired and futile question. Dad had lost his job as a sous-chef at one of San Francisco’s leading hotel restaurants and Yeh-Yeh (which means father’s father in Cantonese), had offered him a job back home in his restaurant, the Golden Dragon, in the heart of Boston’s Chinatown. Dad said they were “lucky that they had somewhere to go.” Yeah, right, she thought. She could feel her anger and disappointment surging again inside her, as she pictured liquid mercury rising in a thermometer stuck in a bubbling bath of boiling water. She couldn’t squelch it this time. This time, the mercury was sure to win out and the thermometer would snap. She was at her breaking point. San Francisco was the only home she had ever known. She was born at San Francisco General. Although she had only been in her new home barely a month, she already missed the sprawling picnics her family celebrated in Golden Gate Park, their sauntering walks through the Palace of Fine Arts on sunlit spring days, dim sum each Sunday morning with Gung-Gung and Paw-Paw, her grandparents on her mother’s side, but most of all she would miss her charter school and all it meant to her. At her old school, which was ninety-five percent Chinese-American, she didn’t have to explain herself. Everyone there used chopsticks at lunch, knew how to write their name in both English and Chinese and didn’t question why Chinese New Year was the biggest holiday of the year. Now in this new school she was assigned to, she was the only Asian-American student in most of her classes. She felt like a guest at her own birthday party. When Mom said it would take some getting used to, she wasn’t kidding. Emily hopped on the long mac-and-cheese-colored school bus and stole a seat in the back. She felt her head throbbing from the day’s latest disaster and was happy when she started seeing telltale signs her stop was coming up. She eagerly awaited passing under the cherry-colored arch, the gateway to the city’s Chinatown, to signal she was home. To her, it resembled an oversized Chinese character scrolled in the finest calligraphy. She smiled at the curbside phone booths fashioned in the shape of tiny pagodas, now relics with the advent of cell phones but quaint nonetheless. From her bus window, she could see a carefully arranged string of golden roast ducks hanging in the window of her favorite bakery. Some lucky family tonight would have a scrumptious meal of crunchy roast duck with soft plump bread pillows, the kind that melted in your mouth. Her stomach grumbled. She jumped off at her stop in front of Yee’s enticing silk shop and rounded the corner, heading for her grandfather’s restaurant. Her family of four, which included her mom, dad and little sister, Sabrina, had moved into the cramped apartment in Chinatown above the restaurant while Yin-Yin and Yeh-Yeh, her dad’s parents, had moved to a roomier home in the nearby suburbs. She didn’t mind their cramped quarters, so Dad could be close to his work. She loved being in the middle of all the excitement downtown. From her bedroom window she marveled at all the fascinating sights and delighted in the familiar sounds. Neon dragons and great walls turned on at dusk, illuminating the community’s pride in their culture. She loved the glittering storefronts with all their shiny silks and hand-painted porcelains, and all the signs in Chinese characters she had no difficulty reading made her feel right at home. Emily stood for a minute outside the jewelry shop and peered in. She admired the sparkling collection of jade pendants and rings. There were so many different shades and hues of the translucent gemstone. She knew that the deep emerald color was valued the most and she couldn’t wait till her thirteenth birthday when Mom told her she could pick out her own jade pendant. She knew exactly which one she would pick. “Every girl needs lucky jade,” she was overjoyed to hear her mother say. Her excitement bubbled over, looking at the gold picture frames which hung in the window. These were the kind shopkeepers bought to congratulate one another when they had gained enough capital and courage to open their own shops. Thick gold characters, carefully framed, hung on a ruby velvet background, spelling out congratulatory wishes, such as, “Wishing you good luck and prosperity in this new venture,” and other things. Someday, she hoped she might even follow in her dad’s and granddad’s footsteps and open her own restaurant or gift shop. Then she might have her own lucky sayings. Looking down at her watch, she knew she had a date to keep. She had promised to rendezvous with her family in the restaurant for an early supper before going upstairs to complete her homework, and before the customers would start coming into the restaurant, in droves! One last stop, she thought. She was tempted by the incense-like scent wafting from
Amy ran. She ran and ran and ran and ran because she never wanted to stop. She flew past churches and office buildings, the sound of her Nikes crushing the gravel guiding her. Her muscles didn’t hurt; her skin was simply a garment she could peel off when she got hot. Amy wanted to get as far away from that building as she could get. The smell still permeated her nostrils and she ran harder, ran faster, as if the closer she was to home the faster she could get rid of the smell. Sweat dripped down her back, nestled itself in the crevices of her face, but she didn’t care. Amy ran faster. Never had she run like this before, but she found that the more she thought, the more she wanted to go home, the farther her legs would take her. Running was a mental sport, Amy decided. Amy did not slow down for several miles. How far away was she from that hospital, that place she never wanted to see again? Seven miles, she reasoned. She approximated the route at thirteen miles, which seemed reasonable, so she would have about six to go. On any other day, Amy would be intimidated, but not today, not when all she wanted to do was go home. Away from that hospital, which reeked of antiseptic and sick people, away from her father, who couldn’t say two words to her, away from the nurses and doctors all in white, who fake-smiled at Amy while secretly feeling sorry for her. Forty-five minutes, give or take, she’d be home. Home. The image of her mother flashed in her mind as she ran, becoming more vivid and then suddenly blurry in a flash; she found that she had to probe her mind to find the good images of her, not the ones where her mother was small and frail, but the energetic woman Amy knew her to be. A twinge of guilt stabbed her heart, letting misery flow through her veins; it took extra energy to keep running now. She had been selfish, uncaring. She had left the room in a hurry, wishing she would never have to go back, despite the calls from her father. Her mother had even called her name, whispered three words down the hall, where they floated in her ears, but she had not turned around. Amy wished she had. She had heard the words—I love you—but she had not responded to them. Amy had not cried, although anguish was pouring out of her in buckets. And Amy knew that the way to rid herself of the permanent melancholy that had overtaken her was to cry, but she never cried. She had stopped crying a long time ago. Four miles to go. Amy pulled her watch up to her face; she had forgotten to wear her glasses that day. Nine twenty-four. The little display glowed in the darkness, the only light she could see that was not a streetlight. The moon wasn’t even out to guide her... her mother loved full moons, she thought. But Amy pushed the thought out of her head and ran faster. Harder. Amy felt a blister form on the back of her heel; she did not slow down to accommodate it. She pulled her watch to her face again. Astonished at the speed of her running, she silently thanked her mother for that gift. The sudden remembrance of her mother brought a whole rush of memories into Amy’s consciousness, and Amy came to a direct halt. She stayed at a standstill for several minutes, her blood pounding and her heart racing. The sky was stained with pitch, as if someone had thrown blueblack paint, the same color as her heart, over the sky and blanketed it in darkness. Amy looked up, expecting to see only a sea of misery blue, and she instead saw that the stars glowed with a different kind of light. They cast a sheer glow on Amy’s face; Amy knew they glowed because her mother was there with them, no longer with her, but in the stars somewhere, glowing that different kind of light. And Amy cried, for what she had left unspoken.
The place was deserted, an abandoned ruin of what used to be. A victim of the slow ravages of time. Ever so slowly fading away, into nothingness… At least that’s what it seemed, until our aunt had to abruptly ruin it by adding, “It may look deserted, but that’s just because people don’t come on the weekdays. On the weekends, it gets really crowded and busy.” That’s a joke right? I thought, seriously doubting that this dumpy old amusement park sitting in the middle of nowhere on one of the many lonely dirty streets in India could ever possibly be “crowded and busy.” I mean, there are literally no signs of life here, except some stray dogs of just skin and bone and the usual hoard of midnight-black crows that perch high in the coconut trees, and peer down at whoever may be passing by, like kings surveying their kingdom. This is pathetic! As I was talking to myself, they—my sister, Ava, my dad, and my aunt—had already moved on, so I had to run to catch up. As we walked, I looked around, trying to appreciate the cool breeze that hadn’t seemed to stop blowing since we got to India from the US, a glimpse of light and freedom in a dark endless tunnel, rather than dwell on the burning heat that beat down on us unmercifully like a slave driver, bringing down the whip on an out-of- line slave. As we wandered around we saw empty food stalls and forgotten ride parts lying discarded on the ground. The ride operators weren’t even at their operating booths, but rather grouped together under trees, talking, looking surprised when they saw us approach, and giving off the immediate impression that even they didn’t expect people to be coming. As we approached, one of the guys stood up with a pained expression, seeming to ask us not to make him get up and go do his job. Honestly, I’d say they got it pretty easy. Getting paid for sitting around, talking, and occasionally pressing buttons or pulling levers. He led us over to the Ferris wheel without even asking whether we wanted to go on, thus solving the problem of “Which ride should we go on first?” Ava and I got in the first cart that came by, and as we closed the gate, the wheel rotated upwards, so that our dad could get in another cart. “These are sooo not safe!” Ava exclaimed, as we noticed that there was no seat belt, restraining bar or anything whatsoever to keep you from falling out, aside from the floor and the about threefoot gate that you could open from the inside. As the huge wheel slowly and cautiously pulled us up, like a scared puppy first entering its new home, Ava and I just sat there feeling more bored than ever. So, to make some fun, we began leaping from one side to the other to get the cart rocking. “CREAK… CREAK…” the joints groaned as we pushed them back and forth, back and forth. We continued to torture the poor flimsy wooden boards, with no apparent alarm or even the attention of any of the few surrounding people. No one even seemed to give us a second glance, which was rare considering that ever since we got to India, people had been staring at us because of how we looked and dressed. As we were cruelly punishing the sides of the cart, the cart started to sway to each side. And not just swaying like a young tree’s new branches gently quivering in the breeze. More like rocking hard like a tree caught in a thunderstorm with no way to shield itself from the harsh blows it was receiving. As the cart continued to swing from side to side, quickly gaining speed, we looked down over the low wall, at the rapidly approaching ground. “SWISH… SWISH… WOOSH… WOOSH… CLANG… CLANG…” shouted the gears covered in a thick layer of mud-brown rust; I could practically hear the CRASH! that was certain to follow. I shut my eyes and gripped the side of the cart, holding on for dear life. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” Ava and I screamed, only to have the air rush up our throats and drown out all the sound we were pouring forth. We got closer and closer, until I could see the very patterns of the bricks on the ground… and then we zoomed upwards, back towards the pure, peaceful blue sky, free and safe, like new-born birds learning to fly. Life was bliss.
I was startled. I really didn’t know what to think. I was so sure that I would get the job. The idea of not getting it had never even crossed my mind. I could hear the baby crying outside and Molly was singing to it. Hush my dear, The galloping men ride through the bracken, and ride o’er the ben, Mummy will watch her sleeping hen, So close your e’en my dearie She had a beautiful voice. It was clear and pure. The fact that she was so skinny and pale that you could almost see her skeleton didn’t affect her voice at all, it made it all the more beautiful. Ever since it began nothing has been the same. I remember it well. The awful smell, the black veil covering everything, oh yes, the potato famine is absolutely terrible. I walked outside. I had let my whole family down. I couldn’t even get a job to save my own family. If only we could get enough money to go on a boat. Then we could escape to America. America. That word fills me with a sort of hope. The land which has streets paved with gold. “The land of opportunity,” people say. I would have traded my right ear just to put one foot into the country. All the people in Ireland would. Not just me. Molly looked at me and I shook my head. She let out a moan and we started walking home. She stopped and laughed as some birds flew by inches away from her bonnet. They called to each other, flying from place to place. If only we had wings. We could fly to America. I looked down, the baby was screaming. Problem is, I thought, we don’t have wings. It was a dismal journey, and we were very glad when we saw home at last. Mama was at her knitting. She is a magician with those needles of hers, I tell you. She was making a beautiful shawl for Molly, with reds and whites and blues. It was fit for a king. Or a president. “Any luck, Tom?” she looked up at me, but she could tell from our faces. None of us slept. We were all too hungry. Next morning, Molly came skipping in, humming a tune and holding a large fish. “You naughty child! Whose river did you steal it from this time?” Mama chuckled. Molly laughed, her hair blowing behind her. She looked lovely with a flower tucked behind her ear. “Never you mind, Mama,” she said, and she set herself by the stove. Minutes later wonderful smells filled the house. We couldn’t survive without Molly. It was January fifteenth and I finally got a job. We broke up stone and made roads that go from nowhere to nowhere. Absolutely pointless. It was just a way for the government to make more jobs. You’d think they would think of something better than that. Something that would help make the famine go away. At least it would pay the rent of the house for a while. In the night Molly fell on the floor, coughing. Mama lit a candle and the orange glow filled the small room. I could just make out Molly on the floor, bright red in the face. We helped her back into bed, but she was still coughing. For the next few weeks it went on. “It’s TB,” said the doctor as he examined her. He was a very good doctor, we knew that, and we believed him. Molly was so weak, if she put even a foot out of bed she would topple over coughing. But we did all we could to help her get better. We gave her three-quarters of the food, and Mama never left her side. We all thought that she was going to get better. My job was awful. It wasn’t so much the work as the children there. They were starving. Their once young, happy faces as they paddled in the river or laughed with their friends were gone, replaced with a sad, worried expression more fit for an old man bowed down with worries than the young children they were. All they had were memories, which they would swap for a single crumb of bread if they could. Even when we had the small amount of money that we earned, there wasn’t any food to buy. St. Patrick’s day came again. We went to church and then joined in with the parades. Mama bought some beer and dyed it green and more fish was stolen from the rivers than ever before. We chopped wood for the fire, and I helped Josie, next door, to look for leprechauns. We had Josie and her family around for a dinner of fish, beer and even one or two potatoes that we managed to find. It was a wonderful day. The landlord has to feed us. It makes him very angry, but it’s a fact. He is going to shove us all out of our own Ireland. Hopefully soon, though I feel sad to leave this country, famine or not. Molly was up all night coughing. When morning finally came and the birds called to each other, Molly was coughing so hard you couldn’t hear yourself talk. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped. The birds outside flew away. Mama rushed over. Then quietly, Mama began to sob. * * * I looked back over Ireland. The boat was rocking softly. I would really miss Ireland, even with the famine. Mama and the baby were playing with a piece of string. Everything would be all right. We were going to America.
Click, clack, sounded the dancer’s feet, echoing out in the auditorium. The smooth piano accompanied her and the audience and judges looked very pleased with the performance. I took a deep breath behind the thick velvet curtain. I was up next. My heart thudded louder than marching drums. I had spent months and months practicing to get this far. I was in the National Level Dancing Team. I breezed through the community and state competitions, but the Nationals were a whole different story. I patted my tight bun and smoothed my tutu out. I was a ballerina. Other dancers around me were quickly reviewing their routine. I was too jittery to do anything. I hoped I would relax once onstage. I was competing with a lot of serious dancers and I had to admit they were looking pretty sharp. The dancer on stage right now was Opal Vasnull. She was a very talented tap dancer. I breathed slowly and tried to soothe my mind by listening to the rhythmic beat of Opal’s performance. I needed to relax. All of a sudden my mom rushed in. “Mom! What are you doing here? I thought you would be in the audience,” I said. “Yes, hon, I just needed to check on you. Are you all right? After this piece there will be a short intermission and you will be next.” I looked at her grimly. “Mom, Opal is really good. How am I supposed to beat her? I can’t possibly polish up my dancing until I’ve calmed my nerves!” My mom gave me a quizzical look. “You’ve never been worried about any of the other dance com- petitions before. Maybe you should take a breather. You know, to freshen up a bit and relax and maybe practice.” I nodded shakily. My mom patted my shoulder and went back to the audience. I peeked out of the curtains one more time. Opal was clicking away as the piano pounded her finale. I closed the curtain. Butterflies were having a party in my stomach. One of the other contestants named Suzy Roo came up to me and asked, “Are you nervous?” I shrugged, even though inside I was saying, “Yes, yes!” Suzy smiled and said, “If I were you I would go outside for a bit to cool out during intermission.” I nodded, too anxious to reply. My mom and Suzy had both told me to go outside. I quickly walked out of the crowded backstage area and out the door. A blast of fresh air greeted me. Somehow this made me feel a little more relaxed, but I would need more than that if I were to beat Opal. I walked around the building and stood in a patch of grass. I looked up. Stars glittered everywhere, but the moon wasn’t to be seen. I sighed and sat down. I had so many ribbons from dance competitions and all my friends and family expected me to bring back another blue ribbon this time. This wasn’t helping to ease my nerves. Maybe stretching would help. I got up and at once my legs turned to jelly and started shaking. Great, I couldn’t even stand up. I sat down again and put my head between my legs. The worst thing that could happen would be if I totally goofed and got last place. At least my mom would still give me the roses that she tried to hide in the car. I put my head up and listened. I heard nothing except for my racing heart beating. Everyone was inside and the animals outside were asleep. It was very still. The world outside the competition seemed frozen, as if waiting for me to perform. I gulped down a flock of butterflies, but they kept fluttering back up. I looked down at the dark lush grass below me. Then I noticed a glimmer of light on the grass. I peered at it. This was odd. Then I looked up. The moon had peeked out behind the dark clouds ever so slightly, directing its powerful moonlight right onto where I was sitting. No, not where I was sitting, it was on me. It was my spotlight just on me. Somehow this relaxed my bubbling thoughts and eased my anxiety. I realized the moon would always be there. No matter what competition I was at, the moon may not be visible, but it is always there. Win or lose tonight the moon will still shine upon me. Win or lose and the beautiful outside world was going to stay the same. Suddenly my mind was brought back to when I was a little girl. My very favorite uncle had brought his music player over to our house for Thanksgiving dinner. I remember so clearly my excited little shrills and squeaks when he turned it on and classical music poured out. My small six-year-old feet instantly began to move as I twirled in my flowing pink dress. My parents clapped and cheered when I was finished. I remember the feeling of pride so big inside of me that my cheeks had glowed. My parents said that was when I first showed my love for ballet. It made their hearts warm at the sight of their dancing baby girl. They also said that was the best Thanksgiving we ever had. Now, seven years down the road, here I was on Thanksgiving Day again, completely nervous and jostled by a National Dancing Competition in Kentucky. I danced for the ribbons and glory. I realized with a jolt trickling down my spine that I was not the little six-year-old dancing for the love it. Now it seemed I just loved competing. This had to change. I didn’t need to try to make it happen. It happened by itself. As if on queue birds started to chirp and squirrels began to chatter. I got up and breathed. Then I danced. I danced like I had never danced before. My feet pattered delicately
Poem
Thirteen Ways to Look at Autumn
The smell of gingersnaps, apple cider, and pumpkin pie wafting through the air in delicate swirls arm-in-arm with the colorful wind. The shy sun poking through the wooden arms of a lamenting willow. Golden drops of warm sunshine strewn across the yards of piled leaves and blades of thin grass. Quietly, almost silently, the bitter wind and its long fingers pull and wrench at the crackling leaves. The sighs of schoolchildren accompanying the morning fog on the dawn of the first day. The clouds overhead as gray and lumpy as my grandma’s oatmeal. A flock of geese, united in song, fly south for the winter. Shadows trace the geese’s dark feathers against the flames of dusk. As I watch them fly the roar of the ocean drowns out my bellow: Why must you depart? A dove and a nightingale cooing along with the caws of a raven upon the calling of Hallow’s Eve. Pumpkins and jack-o’-lanterns with wicked smiles glaring at you from doorsteps. The sweet taste of pumpkin pie dancing upon your tongue. I do not know which to prefer, the beauty of contrast or the beauty of harmony. The last green leaf or the vicinity. The mountain is sighing. Autumn must be near.
When I was five, I got out of school. It was the first day and I had already made friends. But none of us knew what was happening. I heard a lot of talk about crash mess fall tall. Why was everyone talking about mess fall hit hurt and tears. Fear. My mom took me home. The streets were empty. I heard fire trucks and police cars. Then my mom told me. The two towers were missing. I was five. It was September 11. Suddenly, I felt unsure.
The wind is in my hair as I kick with my foot The rhythm of my wheels on the cracks of the sidewalk Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump The curb is coming to meet me at the end of the block It draws closer and closer Its short drop seeming like a cliff I lean back slightly, about to go off And then it happens That sweet split-second in which I am flying, untouched by worldly problems Just flying Then, as my wheels touch down, the entire world comes back in a single gust of wind Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump Back down to earth on my skateboard
Book Reviews
Larklight, by Philip Reeve; Bloomsbury Children’s Books: New York, 2006; $16.95 Eleven-year-old Arthur Mumby, his sister Myrtle, and his dad live on an old spaceship called Larklight—until it is attacked by giant spiders. Larklight is an excellent book because you are never bored. Arthur and Myrtle encounter a new adventure at every turn, like being hunted by a huge baby moth or visiting a talking thunderstorm, but it isn’t hard to keep track of what’s going on. In Larklight, there are many beautiful illustrations of scenes and characters, brightening our understanding of what’s going on, but also taking away a little from our ability to imagine it. The cast of characters is memorable enough that you don’t need the illustrations. Larklight is told from the perspective of Arthur Mumby, an eleven-year-old not unlike me. As I read, I felt sympathy for Arthur, who was surrounded by people/creatures older than him, and enchanted by how he dealt with it. He manages to make friends in the foulest of situations. Some of Arthur’s new companions are other than human—such as Ssilissa the lizard being or Nipper the land crab—but I sympathized with them too. They were all very real people—for example Ssilissa is a tomboy but wants to be treated more like a girl—even if they did not seem that way at first. After escaping from their distressed ship, Arthur and Myrtle meet the notorious space pirate, Jack Havock, who is about as old as Myrtle. They take up residence in his ship and work for him as ship cleaners, as his boat, the Sophronia, is very dirty. Soon we learn that Jack and his inhuman crew escaped from the Royal Xenological Institute (which studies aliens) and, since they had no money, became pirates. Jack’s parents “died” of a horrible disease originating on Venus called Venusian Tree Sickness, which turns whoever catches it into a tree. As Arthur and Myrtle’s mom was believed to have been murdered a few years ago and their dad was seemingly killed by the giant spiders, they empathize with Jack, and befriend him. I think it’s interesting that Larklight is set in the 1850s, as most books today are set in the present or in the future. This was especially intriguing because Larklight is about futuristic things, like space travel. In addition, since Larklight is set in the 1850s, the language used in the book is slightly different from modern English. This slightly hinders your ability to understand it, but once you figure out what the words or phrases you don’t understand mean, it is fascinating to compare modern English with that used in an earlier time. My favorite part of the book was when the spiders were defeated. As Myrtle and Jack hug and kiss each other, Arthur writes, “It is one thing to write of giant spiders and man-eating moths, but there are some sights too stomach-turning for even the bravest British boy to contemplate, and the soppy way Jack and my sister ran to cuddle and kiss each other is one of ’em.” That is my favorite part because I identify with Arthur (I don’t like soppy scenes in movies) and also because I enjoy humor (the picture shows Myrtle and Jack hugging and Arthur covering his eyes but peeking out just a little). If you read this book, I hope you like it as much as I did!
I Am Rembrandt’s Daughter, by Lynn Cullen; Bloomsbury Children’s Books: New York, 2007; $16.95 How many of you know who Shakespeare or Beethoven were? Many of you, probably, but how many of you know who Rembrandt was? I know who Shakespeare and Beethoven were, but I had no idea who Rembrandt was until I read the book, I Am Rembrandt’s Daughter. This book is not told through the eyes of Rembrandt, but through the eyes of his daughter, Cornelia. It is a wonderful book filled with romance and mystery that is based on real characters. Cornelia has always felt ashamed of her father, Rembrandt, or vader as they say in Dutch. She is ashamed because Rembrandt paints with rough brushstrokes that can be seen, unlike the other painters who paint with smooth, hardly visible brushstrokes. It is because of this style of painting that Rembrandt, her brother, Titus, and Cornelia have to move from their big house to a small house. The only reason they survive is because of Neel, the very quiet student who pays to take classes with Rembrandt. Cornelia doesn’t give much attention to boring Neel, and she doesn’t realize how many times she might have broken his heart. Cornelia has always wanted to learn how to paint, but Rembrandt has never offered to teach her. I can relate to this because, like Cornelia, I have always loved to paint, and I am always eager to learn new techniques with the brush. For Cornelia, there has always been a great emotional distance from her vader, Rembrandt, so she tries to find a companion for herself, such as the gold-mustache-man. When he is no longer a suitable companion because he doesn’t come to their house anymore, she finds a sweet boy named Carel. Cornelia falls head-over-heals in love with him. Her life crashes down when unanswered questions about her past become known. Also, what happens when Titus comes down with the plague that kills her mother along with many others? I liked this book not only because it had an outstanding ending, but it also has many important themes and conflicts, such as the difference between rich and poor. Cornelia has been ashamed of her status in her community. Some see her as the poor mad painter’s daughter, and she soon realizes that being rich is not always as good as people think. I also really enjoyed this book because of the different times that the book was set in. One time period occurs in the present when Cornelia is sixteen and the two other time periods occur in her past. The last reason that I liked this book is because it is a bit of a mystery. You want to try and figure out who she was literally—who were her real parents?— and who she was emotionally—is she really just the crazy painter’s daughter or is she more? The author proves that not every relationship is meant to be when you are confronted with a life-and-death situation, and that those who help are the ones you should really appreciate. I was horrified when Carel backed away from Cornelia when she needed him most. But I love who Cornelia chose in the end. This is an emotionally touching book that truly takes you into her past, present, and future.
